


The Old Scars

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: (nope), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, HOORAY, Jack is a Little Shit, Love/Hate, M/M, Someday, Swearing, and all that lies behind, and also he's not a hologram anymore, probably, sort of psychological pressure, the mask of Handsome Jack, the unwritten kiss, they will end well tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: After all what’s happened back then Jack is finally standing in front of him. Alive. In flesh and blood. And though Rhys would very much like to kill the jackass right here and right now, he can’t. And he won’t.





	The Old Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Старые шрамы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909632) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



Jack is standing in front of him, in the flesh. Alive. Covered with skin, the natural one; pierced with veins, the real ones; certainly warmed with rushing blood, the human one to the utmost erythrocyte. Jack isn’t dividing in two, isn’t disintegrating or rippling like a signal of the hiccupping holographer, isn’t falling through the floor or getting handsy.

And it seems like here you go − just draw your arm back and punch that imprudent mug, like you mean it, so there could be a crunch, and swearing, and red stains on the collar. With your fist check the toughness of his nose bridge, straight and even like the path from the middle manager to the janitor. Damn you, Jack. Damn your antics, and the arched brows, and the sight, as gentle as mad. But no. Rhys still has that one wish. He refused back then, didn’t believe him, said: “Chuck it, Jack, you’re not a bloody genie.” Jack felt offended. Jack thought they’re friends. Or… was it Rhys who thought that way? Or was it someone in his head to decide what, how and when he should think? Damn you…

Rhys steps forward. Rhys has a shocker on his belt.

“Take your mask off, Jack.”

The mask grins ravenously. Jack was probably expecting a heavy, rageful blow to his jaw, and was going to hiss and spit if the latches, soldered into his face, were affected too. He lets his shoulders fall and could let off a couple of jokes, but now is definitely not the time and this is not the place.

“So, just like that, Rhysie? _Take the mask off, Jack,_ and let’s roll?”

He spreads his hands and lips, and he seems to be surprised. This is good. This is very good because Handsome Jack can’t anticipate Rhys’ every damn move. Not anymore. Not today. Though Rhys still blinks as if to wash away the delusion − or entire Jack at once. However, it’s impossible to get rid of him as before. Hit your nape on something to get an hour of free will. Rip the implant clean off to savor the blessed quietness. Quietness. He hears Jack clicking his tongue quietly.

“Yes, just take it off.”

Handsome Jack folds his arms; Rhys watches his arms quite carefully. He’s not afraid, he’s just aware of the fact there’s apparently only a second between him breathing happily and him choking to death. He’s not afraid of Jack. Of _this_ Jack. Or he’d like to be not afraid, and that’s why he feels himself so fucking fearless? There’s always an “or”, and Jack has a hunch about it.

“Oh, I see. You’re the big cheese now. So, how’s it, kid? How’s it when fellow Jack’s out of biz and your ass is the only one to rule the mess?”

“Kinda refreshing, you know. Well, it’s hecking awesome, Jack, when you’re all alone with your thoughts! _Hecking awesome._ And now… I’m not ordering you, I’m asking−”

Rhys always makes mistakes. Holds up an umbrella when it’s raining with meteors; asks the headhunters for directions; trusts. Little trustful Rhysie. If you step on a mine, it blows up, Rhysie, that’s how it works, and you’ll be scattered all over the ground like a tiny overripe pumpkin.

He doesn’t learn on his mistakes, at all. That’s why, obviously, Jack is here.

“Asking? Cause we’re bosom pals, yeah, Rhys? Know each other _inside out_? And I will even− for ol’ time’s sake− forgive you all of this.”

Jack smiles. Jack pours his honey shite into Rhys’ ears and slowly, confidently approaches. Handsome Jack is back in town, bitches, and Rhys plucks his shocker from its holder. That’s his ‘B’ plan. Maybe he makes mistakes, maybe he’s truly afraid, but he’s ready. Something itches in his left temple. Phantom pain.

“Cause after all we were _killing_ _it_ , eh? Remember like you’re literally one minute away from the throne, and half of the Helios is already overboard, _hanging_ _around_? What a _waste_ , eh, Rhy−”

“I do remember, Jack, that you’re a smug lying bastard, I remember it clearly, so shut up. Shut up and take−”

With a casual boredom Jack hooks up the clasps of his west. Jack doesn’t like when he has to say something twice. And he hates being told something thrice.

“Such an one-sided conversation we have here, don’t you think? And I haven’t even threaten to finish you off yet, not a single lil’ time. Quite awkward, isn’t it?”

_“Take this fucking mask off, now!”_

Jack looks at him, interested. But the corners of his eyes narrow tensely; but the smile slips from his face; and he stops, confused. And he keeps silent, deciding something for himself. Or for Rhys. Handsome Jack can’t − won’t reconcile to his own helplessness. It’s a hundred to one that as soon as he clicks his fingers in some specific way, Rhys will obey. What do you want, Jack? Who’re we gonna homicide today? Where’re we gonna seize the power, Jack? Like the good old days, yes, pal? With a tiniest detail: now everything’s different.

And so, snapping every latch, Handsome Jack takes off his frozen mask. He stares through Rhys. Trying not to sight something − but to sight nothing at all.

“Like what you see, princess?”

Jack isn’t broken or ruined. He was once, and since then everything has healed somehow, roughened. But his lips are pressed in a thin line, and there’s a mist in his left eye, and the scratch of the scorch brands his skin. Rhys knocks the mask on the ground. The shocker goes “roasty”, Rhys has programmed it by himself, and the discharge melts the edges. The bionic material swells with gray blisters, the metal latches drop out. He should have probably trampled it down. To hear it creaking and cracking under his feet. Probably. But Rhys doesn’t even want to sense it. Doesn’t want to know what it’s like to the touch. Doesn’t want to hold that fake shell in his hands. Jack is already fake − to the very spinal cord and to all his flattering half-truths.

The mask blackens and shrivels; Handsome Jack grinds his teeth powerlessly. Now there’s nothing but his sanity guarding Rhys from asphyxia. It’s a problem though, for Handsome Jack has never ever been notable for sanity.

Rhys comes as close to him as it’s possible. Cups Jack’s edgy face with his palms. The cheeks are so warm that Rhys’ desire to lead his thumb along the forehead, and the pads of his index fingers − along the hairline, to caress the cheekbones, to contour the ears − the desire is almost unbearable. Handsome Jack snarls.

“Damn you, Jack…”


End file.
